Page 58 of Their Little Ghost

“You’re not the only one who likes games,” he says, flipping open his Zippo.

My jaw drops in horror. “You’re not?—”

“I’m not, what?” His tone is laced with bemusement as he lights the wick. “You better squeeze that virgin asshole nice and tight.” He saunters around to face me and strokes my cheek. “Or I’ll set your house alight.”

I’m more worried about the wax melting inside me. How would I explain this injury at the emergency room?

“What do you want?” I ask through gritted teeth, fighting against my crippling fear.

If I tried to pull it out, I’d topple over, and I’m already struggling to balance…

“Come for me,” he demands. “If you don’t, I’ll leave that candle burning. And if you’re having any thoughts about trying to remove the candle, remember that I have no qualms about leaving you hanging.”

“You’re sick,” I hiss.

“If you keep talking dirty, I’ll set fire to your room and watch it burn with you inside it,” he warns, catching my throat in a vise-like grip and squeezing. “Do you understand?” I blink away tears and clench as a drop of wax hits the floor. “I want to see your pussy drip, just like that wax.”

He returns to his briefcase for another object, what looks like a metal stick with something bunched on its end. He dips it in an alcohol-smelling liquid, then walks in slow circles around me, enjoying every second of this.

Like a conductor directing an orchestra, he holds the rod end to the candle’s open flame. With a theatrical flourish, the top of the rod lights up like a marshmallow over an open fire. I yelp in horror. His erection springs to life under his jeans, creating a giant tent.

“Are you scared, Little Ghost?” he asks. With his free hand, he catches a drop of falling wax and smears it onto my ass. The heat is mild, but I’m more concerned about the massive burning rod between my legs. “Touch yourself for me.”

“I…”

To silence me, he edges the candle deeper inside me.

“Do it,” he commands. “Or else.”

What choice do I have? I slip my hand between my thighs. Every instinct is telling me to run, but there’s nowhere to go when you’re attached to a burning light. I clench my jaw to keep my adrenaline-induced shaking at bay.

“You know what to do,” he says.

“I hate you,” I moan, squeezing my eyes shut and imagining I’m anywhere but here while I touch myself.

Blindness provides momentary relief until a sting of heat bounces up my arms.

My eyes spring open to see Lex.

I scream as he rolls the fiery rod down the front of my chest, forgetting all about touching myself.

“That noise,” he says, licking his lips under the mask. “Your scream is everything.”

He twirls the wand in his hand, dancing the flames between my breasts. It only touches one spot for a nanosecond, long enough to heat and startle me, but not lingering enough to burn.Lex’s amber eyes look almost red, hypnotized by the flames and the shadows they cast.

“Why did you stop?” Lex asks huskily. He sweeps the flickering flame across my nipple, making them harden instantly, and I scream again. “I’m a man of my word. Remember what you have to do.”

My cheeks flush with shame as I touch my clit again, trying to separate my mind from my body.

“And don’t think about faking it,” he sneers. “I’ll know.”

Pleasuring myself has always been a guilty thrill. Going to Sunday school as a child taught me that sex should be reserved for marriage. Although I stopped believing in that notion long ago, part of that conditioning still lingers. But there’s nothing thrilling about this. It’s dirty. Sordid. Objectifying.

“Look at yourself,” he instructs.

I stare at my pussy from beneath in the mirror, watching it soak my fingers while trying to ignore Lex’s twirling fireball circus performance.

“That’s it, Little Ghost,” he says. “Keep finger fucking that ripe little cunt of yours. Look at that candle burning. You’ve not got long now. Tick tock.”

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